Corruption
by AndImTheQueenOfSheba
Summary: He was the lucky one. He'd gotten the satisfaction of getting what he'd wanted, and knowing he deserved what he got. I got the dissatisfaction of dealing with what he'd done, and dealing with what I'd done.
1. Chapter 1

_**Oh geez. This reposting thing is getting tiring. Plus, it's not so easy when I'm trying to eat my lunch at the same time. Anyway, here's the story. I deleted a lot, so I reposted lots of stuff, and I'm hoping this makes up for it.**_

* * *

Guilt.

Guilt is a peculiar thing. You can be guilty, you can feel guilty.

Often times, those maniacal people that are, in fact, guilty, don't feel that way. Of course, there are always we few conscience-laden people who feel guilty when we are, but seeing as the human race is now corrupt, many don't. That's why there are serial killers, rapists, thieves. To them, it isn't wrong, and that's why they do it, I suppose. Believing something doesn't make it right, though, no matter how true it may seem in your head, or how well you've been able to convince yourself it is.

I've had many a relationship with guilt. Small things, like stealing candy at the grocery store, borrowing things without asking, hitting my brother, saying things I shouldn't have. Tiny things, that, after they are forgotten, or apologized for, don't make a difference in the everyday life of your average human. Even for me, who is not your average everyday human being, me, who is, in fact, two different people. After a while, it doesn't even matter. People eventually forget, or forgive you. All up until now. Not that they can forget or forgive. They don't even know.

I never realized how big guilt can get. Once you do something horrible enough, something that pops the bubble and lets the guilt all out, lets it invade your body, mind, and soul, it fills you up, slithers through your veins, corroding your mind, making ever little thing seem so much bigger than it previously was.

Each corner seems sharper, each alley, darker. Every step seems smaller, and each look seems even more judgmental than it did before.

I try to keep guilt out of my mind, keep it from hurting me, but then I think, After what I've done, it needs to be there. It's required for a monster like me. I have to feel guilty. It's just supposed to be that way.

Sitting in my seat, in the bowels of my Spanish classroom, I stared at the wall. Even it was judging me. How can that be? It's a wall, goddammit!

I'm getting paranoid. The wall is not judging me. It can't even see me. Besides, it was not my fault. He'd been standing between the rails on the railroad track of much deserved payback for a long time.

I tried to clear my mind, finding out just how difficult that really is, when you've done what I've done. Instead, slightly unsuccessfully, I tried to think about Spanish.

Yo soy un monstruo.  
I am a monster.

I stared blankly at the stark white brick wall at the front of the room, the one hidden behind the chalkboard, the teacher, and the big heads, cabezas grandes, of my fellow classmates. Unconsciously, I picked a loose bobby pin out of my hair, and it commuted to my mouth, my boca. Using my teeth, I pulled the tiny plastic coating off of the end. The coating that is there to stop you from scratching your scalp open, from hurting yourself. I need one of those. Everybody needs one of those, to protect them from me.

I feel like Frankenstein on the inside. If only they knew my mind didn't match the exterior. If only they knew what a monster I am. If I wasn't such a coward, I'd tell them myself. If I wasn't such a coward…I'd tell Amber or Ashley. Neither one could resist contorting the story and making me sound even worse that I already am. Even if they didn't change the story, either one would be sure to run her mouth, and the world would know to beware of me. I wish I could speak. I wish I could open my mouth, and have good things come out of it.

"Karina" Mrs. Anderson called me by my hideous Spanish name. I ignored her, and pulled the bobby pin out of my mouth, before swallowing plastic I'd had swimming around inside of it.

"Miss Stewart." She raised her voice. I wish more people would do that. I need to be yelled at. Somebody has to tell me how horrible I am, what a disaster I've become. "Can you please translate the next line?"

I hate this stupid book. If somebody wanted to read a chapter of To Kill A Mockingbird in Spanish, they'd buy a Spanish copy. They wouldn't be going around asking random people on the street to translate it for them.

I read the next line anyway. I figured I needed to do something good, and listening to my teacher would be a good place to start.

I may not be much Mr. Finch, but I'm still sheriff of Maycomb County, and Bob Ewell fell on his knife.

Fell on his knife.

I closed my eyes for a minute, trying to remove that image from my brain, but it was etched in so deep I couldn't get it out.

"Puedo no ser mucho Sr. Finch, pero soy todavía el sheriff del Condado Maycomb, y Bob Ewell se cayó en su cuchillo." I recite, softly. I'm not even sure she heard me.

"Umm…it would be…Yo Puedo…" Mrs. Anderson told me, trying to find some way of making me seem stupid. She was wrong, you didn't need to use the subject in Spanish. Puedo was the "yo" form of "poder" anyway. I could teach this class much better than her. "But besides that, it was wonderful…Miss Addison, next line." Amber woke up from her nap and hurriedly tried to find her book, her cheeks turning red due to the staring of her classmates, sans me, who was still staring at the wall, the coating-less bobby pin back in my mouth.

"Ummm…Buenas…Dias…sir?" She translated. As unbelievable as it is that Amber even made it through the first semester of Spanish I, let alone into Spanish III, I was pleasantly surprised at how much more than I'd suspected she had actually been able to translate.

"It would be Buenas Noches, but very good Amber, you've by far exceeded expectations today." Mrs. Anderson praised, before moving on to the next unfortunate victim of her ghastly attempt at raising our self-esteem.

For the conclusion of the class, I was trapped in my mind, paying no attention at all to the fake French accented Spanish words of a babbling self conscious old woman.

If somebody hadn't dropped their books on my foot on their way out, I would've never noticed that the bell had rang, and most likely would've stayed in Mrs. Anderson's classroom for the rest of the day.

Whoever it was, I didn't see her face, didn't apologize, and instead quickly gathered her books and hurried out of the room before me, like she knew what I'd done. I was positive that she didn't, and didn't even bother to think about it. I also swiped my books off of my desk and followed her out, making my way to my locker without paying the slightest amount of attention as to where I was going.

I dialed my combination, once, twice, third times the charm, and opened my locker, shoving my books into it. I pulled my science book out, not because I had science homework, but because I'd feel stupid going to advisory without anything in my hands. I made my way to the second floor, and took a desk in the back of Mr. Huizenga's classroom, all by myself. Lilly and Oliver were both in Mrs. Anderson's advisory, while I was stuck feeling bad about myself, in a classroom that smelled like cheese.

"Oh my god, I can't believe they made us stay all day!" Somebody complained. I tried to block her out, resting my head on my arms, letting my hair spread around me. It was dark in here. I liked it.

"I can't believe they made us come at all. This is like, a family tragedy, you know?" Another person grumbled.

"But we're not family…" The first girl said.

"It still feels like I lost my grandpa or something…" Second girl.

"Grandpa? I'd say it feels like I lost my really really hot brother or something like that."

"That's incest. Disgusting."

"Whatever, I never said he wasn't adopted." The first girl argued, wrapping up the conversation by starting to cry.  
I'd say I'm sorry, but I can't. I can't say anything. It won't come out right.

Of my two best friends, I'd pick the third one as the smartest. Neither Oliver nor Lilly have noticed anything wrong with me. Or maybe they have, and are too afraid to mention it.

"Hey, what's up?" Lilly asked me, as we were leaving the school. How's the guilt thing going? Decided how to kill yourself yet?

"I'm fine." I mumbled. I couldn't say anything more. Her "What's up?" had been more of a "What are we doing now?" What's up?, than a "What's wrong, you look horrible." What's up?, but I'd answered it like she'd asked the latter.

"Okay." She replied, following me down the sidewalk silently.

"Lilly, you are so dense, there is obviously something wrong with her." Oliver spat sarcastically, using his new favorite word, before turning to face me. "What's wrong, miss lunch again?" I only shook my head. I couldn't trust my mouth.  
He was silent for a minute. I could see him staring at me out of the corner of my eye. He then inhaled as much air as possible, and started another sad attempt at rapping.

"Hey Miley, why aren't you smiley? You're looking' kinda weird, like you just grew a beard, and you're hidin' it from the land, cov'rin' it with your third hand. Wicky wicky, now, word." He smiled at me, and I stared at him. I couldn't help but say something, he'd asked for it. The old me made a tiny appearance, in the tone of my voice.

"That was…different, Oliver."

"Thanks Miles, that's very nice of you, I try to be unique, ya know, keep it fresh."

"It wasn't a complement." I told him. The smile disappeared from his face.

"Oh…" He mumbled stupidly. "You're mean!" I knew he was kidding, but I wish he wasn't. I wish he'd stay away. Him and Lilly both.

"Listen, guys, I'm not feeling very good…I'm gonna go home and take a nap or something, okay?" I lied, excusing myself from their presence. Or rather, excusing them from the presence of a monster.

"Oh, alright." Lilly accepted my excuse. "Hey Oliver, you're gonna buy me a hot dog, okay?" She ordered, before she drug him by his arm, nearly popping it out of the socket, in the direction of Rico's, without waiting for him to oblige.

"Hope you feel better soon." Oliver mumbled, before following her more willingly.

I drug my lying self up the sidewalk, and into the house, where I was met by my brother, who seemed incredibly anxious, even for him. If only he knew how much danger he was in.

"Good, you're okay. There's a killer on the loose, and I don't need my little sister getting hacked up and thrown off the top of a building. Dad would blame me…"

"What a disaster it would be if he didn't let you live in his basement until you're fifty." I garbled, spotting the tv. I needed to find the remote, I had to change the channel.

"Three days after the body of Jake Ryan was found, face down, outside the ground floor of the apartment building his penthouse is located in, police have still found no leads. The people are advised to stay inside at night and lock all doors and windows, just to be safe. If anybody sees anything suspicious, they are advised to talk to the police as quickly as possible, so that we can make sure a tragedy like this doesn't happen ag-" I finally found the remote and turned off the tv, a seemingly suspicious thing for a person like me to do. Jackson stared at me, before mistakenly thinking that I couldn't handle the fact that Jake was dead.

"Oh, it's okay Miley, you go cry your little eyes out, just on somebody else's shoulder, alright, I just got this shirt and I have a date tonight." He said, pulling me into a hug, patting my back. I just stiffened up, waiting for him to release me. When he finally did, I tried to fake a tear, and hurried as quickly as I guiltlessly could, toward the staircase. I made my way up to my room, thinking about Jake.

He was the lucky one. He'd gotten the satisfaction of getting what he'd wanted, and knowing he deserved what he got. I got the dissatisfaction of dealing with what he'd done, and dealing with what I'd done.

I didn't mean to do it. He had deserved it, but I didn't mean to do it. I hadn't wanted to. I hadn't gone there with the express intention of doing what I did. I didn't mean to do it.

I didn't mean to kill Jake Ryan._****_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Welllll. I decided that as long as I have the first couple chapters of this, I should post them. Then, however, I reread the third chapter...and that will not be up soon. I'm redoing that one. So sorry. Enjoy this one though, while you wait! **_**:****D**_**  
**_

* * *

I have a serious problem.

This isn't right. I shouldn't feel like this. I should feel much worse than I do. I committed a crime. I killed somebody. Sure he deserved it, but any normal person would be suffering a lot more than I am, after committing a crime of this intensity. I should feel like I've lost somebody. In a sense,  
I have. I've lost myself.

When I was younger, they always called me the good kid. Jackson was the troublemaker. Jackson was the one who chucked horse turds at the mail man. Jackson was the one who poured juice down his classmates' shirts. He was the one who did bad things, not me. I was the good one! I was the one people smiled at when they looked at me. I was the one that got good grades. I was the one that got those tiny golden stars stuck to my papers. I was the one my teachers remembered. I was good! I was well-behaved, I was NOT a killer.

That's all different now. I've changed, and I can't go back. I wish I could, but there's only one direction I can go. Forward.

Jake Ryan was in my way. I had to either go around him, or smash right through him. You can take a guess at which one I chose.

I should've gone around. It would've hurt, I probably wouldn't have gotten over it, but it would make his death somebody else's responsibility, and it would make my conscience a lot lighter.

The problem is, it doesn't seem to be such a bad thing, anymore. The more I try to convince myself it was wrong, the more I convince myself it wasn't. I've committed a crime of colossal velocity, and I don't feel as guilty as I should.

He did deserve it. In the minds of our government, the severity of what he did is almost equal to that of what I did.

He should've known. I have to deal with the inconveniences of fame just as often as he does. It's toughened me up, I have a callous on my mind. I'm not going to let people take advantage of me. He should've known that. He did know that. But he took advantage of me anyway.

Usually, when your only living parent dies, you stay in your room, and cry your pathetic little eyes out. You remember all of those sickening happy memories, and make people feel sorry for you. You don't do what Jake did. You don't try to use death for your own benefit.

Most people felt sorry for him, hell, I felt sorry for him. I didn't want to, after how much he'd changed, after how mean he'd become. I didn't want to, but I did feel sorry for him. He lost a parent, and that's hard. He didn't need to use that tragic inconvenience to get to me like he did. He didn't have to do that. He did it anyway.

I didn't have to go back there. I didn't have to confront him. There was no need for me to go back to that place and tell him what a horrible person he was. It wasn't mandatory that I tell him I was going to report him. I could've left, but I didn't.

I didn't have to grab that knife. I didn't need to sneak up behind his unsuspecting body, standing with such innocence, on that moonlit terrace. It wasn't obligatory that I get him back for what he'd done, that I seek revenge. And it certainly wasn't necessary that I kill him. I did it anyway.  
I didn't have to sink that knife into his back, and I didn't have to smile as he flipped over the railing and fell to his much quicker death, screaming. I did it anyway.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

"Ahhhhh!!" My head broke the surface of the water and my scream echoed around the backyard, much louder than it had been previously, when it was muffled by the water in the hot tub. Good thing the neighbor's aren't home. I'd have to explain myself. They'd ask me what's wrong, and due to my uncontrollable actions, I'd probably tell them.

I'm lucky I'm alone. All alone, here with my thoughts, and my memories, and my conscience. My "guilty", "guilty" conscience.

Please, why can't I feel more guilty than this? I did something beyond horrible, and I feel like it wasn't a mistake. I'm horrible.

I probably shouldn't be sitting in this hot tub, trying to drown myself. Who would that help? It would only torture all of the other monsters in Hell, where I am surely, without a doubt, going.

No matter where I go, I don't belong.

I stood up, my heavy, wet, clothes dripping with warm bath water filled with the imaginary blood of my victim.

Victim.

That's a funny word. It's like "evict him." Evict him from this planet, from life. You're evicted, you don't belong here.

I wish I was a victim. Why couldn't Jake have killed me? He would've loved the attention. He'd always been like that, but it had only gotten worse, after he'd left me that note. I still have that note somewhere. I'm going to burn it. Burning the note, however, won't remove it from my mind I've got it memorized. It's etched into my head.

Dear Miley,  
I thought about what you said and you're right. I do wish I was a normal person sometimes. I just don't know how to do that yet, but when I figure it out I hope I'll be worthy of someone as terrific as you. And don't worry, your secret will always be safe with me.  
Love,  
Leslie

Love? Love. I detest the word. He said it, oh, he said it. "Miley, I love you, why won't you do this?" "I love you, no matter what you think." "I love you, okay?"

He didn't mean it, not one time. Not that night, nor any other. He never meant what he said anymore. He can't speak meaningless words any longer, thanks to me. That's one good thing that evolved from all of this.

I do wish I was a normal person sometimes. I just don't know how to do that yet

He never did figure it out. I made him normal. A normal, dead, rotting, corpse. A normal victim of a horrible, although much deserved, crime .  
I wish I could remove that night from my memory.

I wish I was a gold fish. I could have forgotten the entire thing within three seconds. What? Murder? Who? I wish I could.

Unfortunately, I cannot get rid of the movie playing in my head.

I can still here the music playing in the background, and his voice, saying things it didn't mean. I remember how he defended his pathetic self, and the very fervent crime he had committed.

"I didn't do anything wrong, Miles. You wanted it too." Liar.

"You better not tell anybody." Why. Not.

"It's not like they'll believe you. I'm Jake Ryan."  
That was when he walked out onto the balcony, stupid enough to think I wouldn't follow him. Or maybe he wasn't stupid. Maybe the normal me would never ever have even dreamed of following him out there. Maybe what he did had changed me so much, he had expected me to just leave, when I didn't.

Then I spotted the knife on the kitchen counter, and debated whether or not I should grab it. I took a quiet step back into the room, with the weapon in my hand, and he didn't know it.

I snuck up behind him, wrapping my fingers more firmly around the weapon in my hand. He didn't know it. Stupid boy.

I can remember the exact words coming from his stereo as I tried to justify what I was doing.  
_  
Because maybe, You're gonna be the one who saves me._

Nobody was going to be saved that night. Nobody.

This wasn't right, was it? I was in no danger anymore, it's not like he was going to hurt me any more. If he'd intended to do that, it'd already be done.

Maybe he'd meant it when he told me he loved me. Maybe he really did. He'd just went through something horrible, and he'd needed somebody. I'd been the closest thing, and no matter how much I objected, he'd done what he needed.

I plunged the knife into his back, and watched him stiffen up and bend backwards, towards me. He spun around, and his cloudy eyes met mine. They were full of disbelief and fear, and strangely enough, it made me smile. He hadn't expected this at all. I'd surprised him.

He fell against the railing, blood pouring out of his back, and I decided he didn't need to suffer _this_ much. He'd been distraught, distracted by his grief. He'd still done it, but I'd let him die quicker.

And so I helped him onto the railing, and watched as he fell to his death, smiling at my achievement all the way.

It was such a horrible thing to do, I shouldn't have done it. Maybe he hadn't deserved it as much as I'd thought. I think I knew, in the back of my mind, that it was the wrong thing to do. I just couldn't help myself. At the time, I was uncontrollable.

I stared up into the sky, looking at the stars. Maybe Jake was one of them. He'd be that large dull one to the left.  
He thought he was so huge, so great, so high and mighty, but in reality, he was a tiny little blip on the radar of people that didn't even know him. He wasn't so great. That's why he's dead.

I closed my eyes and lowered my face back into the water, submerging all but my hair. It was quiet in here, in the now cooling water of our unplugged hot tub. It was quiet until I heard a noise. There was somebody behind me. They dropped something in the water, and ran off. I sat up and grabbed the piece of paper floating in the water.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

Or so they claimed. This would be easy. He's running too slow, I can seem him perfectly well, under the street lights. It wasn't a smart idea to come here.

This could be so easy. But why? Why would I do it? Maybe I need to get caught. If I snuffed out this one, who would tell? Nobody, that's who.  
This person I didn't even know obviously wanted me to react. Was this some sort of suicide attempt? I'd be happy to oblige. I can't get blamed for this. The world would see me as I am, and I could deal with that, but if my friends found out I was a monster…

I couldn't let them find out.

I climbed out of the hot tub and exited the back yard, spotting my second victim on the street corner. He'd slowed down, and was just walking now. Hasn't he been warned to stay inside at night?

Obviously a rule breaker. Why else would he provoke me? He's getting a thrill out of this.

Does he know I'm following him? Probably not. Should I be following him? Definitely not. Can I help it? No way.

I sneak through the shadows, hiding behind bushes every time he turns around. It's not that hard to tail somebody this stupid. He's obviously a brainless oaf, and probably gay too. He had obviously been in love with little Jake-o. Why would he come after me, and provoke me, if he didn't want to get me back for getting rid of Jake? He lives in the apartment building across from Jake's penthouse. I'll bet he's got a pair of binoculars in there that he used to watch Jake getting dressed with. What a weirdo. It's surprising he wasn't the one to do him in.

I take a shortcut through the garden, one I knew about due to the three hours I'd spent in it two days before I killed Jake. The garden I'd spent three hours in with Jake, while he was alive. Before he'd committed his crime, and before I'd committed mine.

I shouldn't be here. This is wrong, why am I doing this?

I can't help it. Why can't I help it?

This is the worst kind of addiction. What happened to me?

This boy didn't do anything, can't I wait until he's fully earned the right to die?

This is completely spur of the moment. I've gotten away with it once, but I won't get away with it twice. It's only a matter of time before they find out it was me. I'm sure my DNA is all over the place…

What's one more? Two life sentences? Two death sentences? Either way, I can only live or die once.

I already killed one, what's two?

_Dear God,  
Please forgive me, for I have sinned, and I'm about to do it again. Help me to kick this horrific habit.  
Stop me from killing him. Please. I don't want to do it.  
Amen  
_  
As much as I didn't want to, I stayed, and waited behind the corner. When my mysterious provoker rounded the corner, BAM. Rock to the head.

Another one down.

I'm so demented.

* * *

_**Well this was short...oh well, I'm not fixing any more of it. Enjooyy! R & R!!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Alright, so the first time I'd had this posted, this chapter was two, but seeing how short they were...I had to put them together. Plus, I know I'm too lazy to ever want to edit these at seperate times. So yes, two chapters. Which means...the next chapter will be completely new...as in...I'll have to write it...dang.

* * *

_**

There are so many people here. So many. So many people I could hurt like _that._

I don't want to hurt anybody. I just...can't seem to help it. I'm so messed up. This isn't right. Then why do I do it? How can I realize how wrong the things I'm doing are, and still do them?

I stood there, with that knife in my hand, regretting what I did before I did it. I lifted up that rock, and felt bad before I even hit him. Yet I still did it. Why did I still do it? Can't somebody explain?

This party is supposed to be for me. They're supposed to be celebrating the release of my latest studio album. They're supposed to be celebrating my "talent" and my "dream" and how "grounded" and "unspoiled" and "normal" I am. Instead, they're celebrating the fact that they are oblivious to the fact that I am a murderer.

I am a murder.

I

am

a

murderer.

I am a monster. A beast. A blood thirsty creature of mass destruction.

I am horrible.

"Hannah, why aren't you dancing? It's your party, and you're sitting in the back of the room blah blah blah blahbity blah." I tuned Traci out as she went on and on about the many rules of society that I was breaking by sitting in the back of the room, all by myself, during a party thrown in my honor.

What honor? I had no honor. Honor is a good word. Honor, according to the dictionary, is "Great respect or high public esteem accorded as a right or as due"

It is not a right that I am worthy of. I am worthy of nothing but death. Somebody needs to kill me. I need to be murdered. I am a psychopath.

I am a horrible psychopathic murdering whack-job. I deserve to be burned at the stake.

"I don't feel good Trace, could you just leave me alone for a minute?" I asked her, once she quit talking. I was more rude than was necessary, but I needed to get her away from me. She was my most annoying friend. She was sure to go first.

"Okay...you better be feeling one hundred percent by the time we do the limbo. You know you're the best at it." She smiled at me, flashing her unnaturally white teeth my direction, and headed off to the refreshments table. I wasn't going to do the limbo. I'd win, and they'd cheer, and I couldn't handle that. I deserve no kind of cheering at all.

"Time for karaoke!" The DJ yelled from behind his booth. The flashing lights in front of his table were giving me a headache. The colors were burning my retinas.

Most of the crowd backed up, trying to distance themselves from the crazy DJ. A couple people stayed where they were, but only because they were too greedy to leave the refreshments table to get away from karaoke.

Several people I didn't know were forced onto the stage within the next hour, and none of them could sing very well. They, along with the audience, didn't seem to be enjoying themselves.

Needless to say, I, of course, wasn't enjoying myself. I was wallowing in the desire to die, at my own little table in the only corner of the room not lit up by those damn flashing lights. I waved at random people, and put my head down when they started my way. It seemed to prove to them that I wasn't feeling good, and they pretty much left me alone. I had to adknowledge them somehow. It was common courtesy for me to at least say Hi to the people at a party thrown for me.

"Alright, that was...interesting...thanks to everybody who volunteered!" Excessive groaning commences. "Now how about somebody who makes a living doing just that, only better?" The crowd started cheering. It gave me a colossal headache.

I wasn't going up there, if that was what he was getting at. I'd think by now they'd have realized that I was not in the mood to enjoy this party, nor sing at it.

"Yeah? Okay, well how about three someones?"

What? What three "someones" would actually be dumb enough to go up there? At my party?

"Please welcome...The Jonas Brothers!"

That's who.

Why are they even thinking about going up there? It's karaoke, why are they subjecting themselves to something like that?

When you're an official, recording, artist with a contract, you do not do karaoke at random parties. You just don't. And especially not at a party thrown in your rival's honor. You can sing karaoke at fundraising events, and weddings, but not record release parties. They're supposed to be celebrating my record, not theirs!

What is wrong with me? Why am I so mad? Joe, Nick, and Kevin are my friends. Maybe, in a way, they are my rivals. We have many of the same fans, but most of the people that hate me, dislike me because they like the brothers. As if they really had a chance with either one of them. I am not stealing any one of the brothers from anyone! Why do they hate me for something I've never done before and am not doing now?

I watched from my dark corner as the three brothers jumped up onto the stage. Well, Joe did. And he almost tripped. Which just about made my day.

They looked so happy. Happy to please their fans. Their fans who were my friends, at my party, for my CD. They should not be singing! Hasn't their mother taught them anything? They're being rude.

As my anger simmered, the DJ started some music, and the Jonas Brothers started singing. It gave me a headache, so I made my way out of the main room, and into one of the smaller, darker, much quieter ones at the end of the main hallway.

There were tables pushed up against the wall, all covered with sheets, in the back of the room, which is where I made my way over to. I held one of the sheets up, and climbed underneath a table in the corner. I pressed my back to the wall, and closed my eyes for a minute. I tried to clear my mind, but by doing that, I was more focused on what was going on around me, which meant that I could hear the music coming from the other room.

I took a deep breath and listened to the buzzing sound the air made as it left my lips. It wasn't the least bit comforting, considering I didn't deserve to hear that noise. I didn't deserve to breathe, hear, or live. Period.

I rotated my body so that I could lay down on the hard tile floor. When I went to lower my upper body, I did so too fast, and whacked my head on the floor. I had to smile. I deserved that so so much. I deserved much worse than that, but you have to start somewhere. I had a lot coming to me.

As much as I needed it, it still hurt. I rubbed the back of my head, waiting for the pain to subside so I could concentrate on other ways to hurt myself. When I ran my hand along the tile floor, back to its rightful place, my fingers hit something hard. It rolled away when I touched it, so I sat up to reach for it, again hitting my head.

"Oww..." I mumbled to myself, trying to discern the cylindrical object from the dark floor. I found it eventually, and wrapped my fingers around it carefully. It was a screwdriver.

I crawled out from under the table, holding the tool in my right hand. Silently, I climbed up on top of the table and pushed back the curtains of the window with my left hand. It was storming outside. The rain was coming down really hard, and lightning was flashing. The pandemonium of the party going on down the hall sufficated the sound of the thunder, but I'll bet it was loud.

An especially bright flash of lightning temporarily blinded me. I noticed, while I was rubbing my eyes, that the party didn't seem so loud anymore. I could actually hear the thunder now. It was quiet, but I could hear it.

I leaned my shoulder against the wall and stared out the window for several minutes, in the dark, when the lightning wasn't lighting up the room. When a particularly loud clap of thunder struck, the door opened. I didn't bother to turn my head, I knew who it was. I could smell them.

"Thank God there's a lock on this door!" Joe exclaimed, pressing his back up against the door, next to Nick, to keep whoever it was that was outside from coming inside, while Kevin turned the lock.

"Yeah...Who knew Traci VanHorn could be so..." Nick trailed off, trying to think of a word to use.

"Scary?" Kevin suggested.

"Na..." Joe.

"Flirtacious?" Kevin again.

"No..." Nick.

"Horrendous?" Joe suggested.

"Stalker-ish..." Nick finished,

"She runs a lot faster than you'd think..." Kevin whispered, leaning against the wall next to Joe.

The lightning flashed, lighting up my face.

"Hey." Nick whispered, elbowing Joe in the side. He obviously hadn't meant for me to hear him, but he'd been too loud. I could see, out of the corner of my eye, that he was pointing at me. I turned and pushed my back to the window, to stare at the three brothers.

"Hannah?" Joe asked, tilting his head to the side.

I didn't say anything. I couldn't trust my stupid mouth.

"I thought you left." He said

"Do you want me to?" I asked

"Uhh..." He mumbled, not listening to me. He He pressed his back against the door as somebody tried to open it, and said neither of the boys said anything until the footsteps faded away.

"What are you doing in here?" Nick asked me, leaving the wall to sit a foot away from me on the table. He was obviously the stupid one of the group. Poor kid. I'd always liked him the most.

"I was...taking a nap." I lied. Oh great. Now I'm a liar too. Great.

"Oh...well, could you hear us out there? What did you think of the song?" Kevin asked, reminding me of why he'd always been my least favorite.

"Of course she did. We were awesome." Joe stated nonchalantly, waving off Kevin's question with a flick of the wrist so easily that it made me jealous. Why couldn't I wave things off that easily? Lately, I was always letting everything get to me. It made me mad. Joe made me mad.

But then again, that was just Joe, wasn't it? He said things like that, right? It made no sense that Joe was what was making me mad. It made no sense that for absolutely no reason, I suddenly hated him, _and_ both of his brothers, with a fiery passion so hot I was sweating. It was a horrible feeling. He didn't even do anything! None of them did anything to provoke me. I was mad, because I definitely have severe mental problems. I need medication as soon as possible.

I clenched my fist, squeezing the screwdriver in my hand extremely tightly, as the other two made their way over to the table. They needed to stay away. They were too close.

I yanked the curtains on the window behind me shut, nearly pulling them off, and leaped off the table to get away from them. I made my way to the door, leaving the three Jonas brothers confused and by themselves. As my fingers touched the doorknob though, I didn't want to leave, like I had before. The party was getting even louder, more chaotic than it had been as of yet. I looked over my shoulder, and all three brothers remained on the table, staring at my back like I was some animal in a zoo.

I wanted to hurt them so bad, right then. I could'nt do it though. They didn't deserve it, they hadn't done anything.

My fingernails dug into my palms, and I could tell they were about to start bleeding, warned by the agony caused by the slow but painful slicing of the skin on my palms.

I couldn't help it. I had to do it.

I flipped on the lights, and the blinded Jonas Brothers all three started shading their eyes in some way, one only closing his eyes, there other two sheilding them with their hands.

"You shouldn't have sang." I whispered, flipping the screwdriver around and around in my hands, playing with it.

"Huh, what?" Nick asked, disoriented by the contrast of the previous darkness, and the current bright lights.

"It's my party, and you're trying to make it about you."

"We weren't trying to..." Kevin mumbled, rubbing his eyes as I got closer to them.

"You may not have purposely done it, but you've been stealing my fame more and more each day. You're turning them against me. All of them."

"Hannah, are you...what's wrong with you?" Nick asked me. He looked scared. He should be. He needn't say that. He should not have said that. He had no right.

"NOTHING'S WRONG WITH ME!" I screamed, holding the screwdriver in my hand by the metal end, waving it at them, as the party raged behind the door. I knew they wouldn't be able to hear me out there. "You're stealing my fans, and you don't even care! You're stealing my friends! You already tried to steal my daddy...You need to just back off, before something bad happens." I shouted at them.

No. I was the one that needed to back off. Me. Not them.

They looked terrified. I was so scary right then. I was even scaring myself. I was somebody else completely. I wasn't me. Why was I so mad? Why was I acting like this?

I made my way to the door, before I hurt them. They didn't deserve it. They hadn't done anything.

"You know what? It's not all about you. There are billions of people in the world, it can't always be about you. You're just selfish. You've got to give other people a chance, you know." Joe bravely yelled at me. I slowly turned around to face him. He was trying to look courageous, and at the moment, he wasn't scared. he would be though, he would be.

I slammed the plastic end of the screwdriver down on the doorknob, breaking it. A two inch crack formed below it in the door. I was amazed at how strong I could be when I wasn't myself. The plastic cracked, due to the force, and a piece fell to the floor. I tightened my grip on the metal end, and started towards him, giving up completely on my sanity. It was long gone. This wasn't me. I knew what was right and what was wrong, but this person did not. Whoever I was right now didn't give a shit if people got hurt. This me was MAD.

"You're pretty brave, talking to me like that." I whispered, straightening my spine, trying to look intimidating, when I knew I wasn't. I was far from intimidating. I wasn't a naturally frightening person. I usually scared nobody.

He shrunk back, for a second, but then Kevin stood up angrily, and Joe got brave again.

"You can't deal with an angry girl without your brother? Ooh, I'm scared of you." I spat at him, tossing my hair over my shoulder. I moved my gaze to Nick, who looked like he was about to wet his pants. He slid to the edge of the table, about to get off, but he paused and stayed where he was.

I started flipping the screwdriver around again, metal, plastic, metal, plastic, metal, plastic.

"You're not just an angry girl. You've never been like this. You've got to be posessed by Sadaam Hussein or, or...or Dr. Evil or something, you are not...you. You're so different. You've cracked." Joe's voice broke as he said the last word. He was scared of me, I could tell. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, he was terrified.

"Cracked? I've cracked?" I squeezed the plastic end of the screwdriver, raised it, and next thing I knew, Joe was on the floor, the screwdriver protruding from his chest, and I didn't remember putting it there at all.

"Now you've cracked. Literally." I whispered words that weren't mine, and smiled a smile that didn't belong to me either.

Moments later, all three brothers lay dead on the floor, and I was back on the table, trying to figure out how I could kill myself with my own weapon. I wanted to, so so badly. I could hardly remember anything I'd done, and it scared me. Why was I doing these things? Why was I so...evil?

I had to get out of here. I couldn't get blamed for these things. It wasn't me doing it...it was somebody else...I...I must be schizophrenic. How else could I be such a monster some of the time, and...not a monster, the rest of the time?

The Loch Ness monster can't masquerade as a human, so how could a monster of a less traditional sense be able to do it?

I pulled my phone out of the blood-soaked pocket of my jeans, and dialed the number of one person that wouldn't be in danger. Somebody I had no feelings toward, somebody who, though they were my friend, was not that close to me, nor too distant. I didn't hate him, but I didn't love him.

I called Oliver.

The phone rang six times, until he finally answered.

"Yo, what's crack-a-lackin'?" He answered, laughing.

That was when I realized it had been a mistake. His laugh, the way he thought he was funny...I loved that about him. I couldn't unload my problems on somebody I cared about, and I _did _care about Oliver. We hadn't been very close for a while...but I cared about him.

I let out a huge sob, and quickly tried to suck it back in. It was too late to go back now. He knew there was something wrong.

"Oliver..." I whispered. I could feel tears running down my face, and my voice was shaking. No matter how distorted my voice was, he could still hear it. Sadly, he couldn't tell how horrible I was.

"What's wrong?" He asked me, urgently.

"I need you to come get me." I told him.

"Why? What happened?" He asked. His voice was so serious...so...unlike him. I wanted to laugh, but I was so devastated by what I'd just done that I could barely move.

"Nothing, just...come get me, please."

"Uh...okay...where are you exactly? I'm not cool enough to figure it out on my own..." Great, the one time he admits it, I'm too messed up to tease him about it.

I told him where I was, and took one last look around the room. I skipped over the dead bodies on the floor, and stared at the doorknob they'd tried to use to escape. Too bad I'd broken it. Too bad it was jammed. Maybe they could've gotten out.

I opened the curtains on the window again, and flung the window itself open. I climbed through and landed in a bush right outside of it. Reaching for the window, I grabbed the blonde hairs stuck in it, yanked them out, and closed the window. They'd never be able to say Hannah was here, because she wasn't. There was no sign of her. The fingerprints were not hers, they were mine. And I was not Hannah. Not anymore.

I stood, in the rain, at the edge of the road, about a block down the street, where Oliver would be picking me up.

Blood was washing out of my clothes, running down the sidewalk and into the sewers. I'd have to find a way to get rid of these though, it wouldn't all wash out.

I could see Oliver's car coming down the road. He was driving too far to the left side, as he'd done for all of the two months he'd had his license.

He forgot to use his signal as he pulled to the curb, but I decided not to say anything, though I usually would. He looked up at me, saw the blood, and stared, shocked, at my face.

"What did you do?" He asked, frantic, as he opened the door and climbed out."Nothing." I replied, shoving him back into his seat as I hurried over to the pasenger seat.

...

For, not Of.

He's scared for me, not of me.

I need to die.

He's obviously off his rocker. It would be so easy to just do one more. I'm already going to hell, what more would happen if I did it again?

It's not really that bad, is it? They were all asking for it. Jake deserved it, the spy deserved it, Joe, Nick, and Kevin all deserved it. They shouldn't have provoked me if they didn't want to die.

No. It was a horrible thing to do. They didn't deserve it. They didn't. I shouldn't have done it. No. No.

If I weren't such a coward, I'd have killed myself long before this. What would that fix, though? Sure, it'd stop me from killing, no...hurting, more people, but what about the people I've already hurt?

I'd get away with it, and that's why I won't do it. Think about where I'd go anyway. I'm in no hurry.

Like a voice in my head, words formed in my ear that weren't coming from an outside source.

_How ever will you get to heaven now?_

"How ever will you get to heaven now." I whispered aloud, so quietly that it could be heard, but not understood.

"W-what's that?" Oliver asked me, still freaked out by my bloody, frazzled, appearance.

"Nothing." I mumbled, doing my best not to look at him, in fear of the anger that could consume me if I did.

I noticed then that I was no longer wearing my wig. There were a couple of blonde hairs glued to my arms, with a shiny red glue not so uncommon to myself. Where was the wig? I...what did I do with it?

The images came back, flooding my unwilling brain. I could vaguely remember straddling Nick, with my knee pressed to his chest, and the wig in my hands. I'd used it as a bridge, and the river underneath was Nick's neck. I'd strangled him with my wig. I'd sat there, watching his eyes cloud over, with an innocent blonde wig in my hands, and a severe chemical imbalance in my brain.

I'd left it.

"Turn around. Go back." I ordered Oliver, my voice completely calm, although my brain wasn't. The blood running through my veins wasn't my own, and it was telling me to kill him. I was resisting as much as I could, but sooner or later I'd need to get away from my driver.

Talking to him wasn't making it any easier to resist, but it worked, all the same. He quickly flipped a U turn on the dark abandoned street, and headed back to the party.

I had to get that wig back. They couldn't find it at the scene, they'd know it was me. It was crucial that I find my murder weapon, every single piece of it.

The car slowed to an unbelievably slow, painful, stop, and I threw open the door before the car quit moving.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Oliver yelled after me. I ignored him, and, instead, rounded the corner and found the window I'd climbed through. There was a twig from the tree directly outside of it, holding it open slightly, and I slid my fingers into that space.

When I opened the window, I could smell the blood instantly, even from outside. It wasn't so strong that anybody else could smell it yet, but my guilt had sharpened my sense of smell, and I knew exactly what was in there, and the scent of it all.

I slithered through the window, like a snake, and tumbled onto the table, making too much noise. I paused for a minute, my arm hooked around the window frame, just in case. I pushed my hair behind my ear, to keep it from obstructing my hearing, and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

I tried not to look at them, but the corners of the room were all empty. My eyes skimmed over Joe as quickly as possible, he was the most mangled, and went past Kevin, whose ears and mouth were leaking, due to the blow to the head he'd gotten. Nick hadn't shed any blood, as far as I knew. The bruises on his neck were just forming, and his arms were bent, fallen at his sides, after he'd tried so hard to push me off of him. The wig was stuck in the left one.

I silently climbed off the table, my shoes squeaking too loudly, when they hit the floor. I made my way over to the smallest body, and forced the blonde hair from it's hand. I tucked it into my sweatshirt pocket, ruining my nicest jacket even more.

Searching the bodies for more hairs was most important, but I didn't want to do it. I forced myself to do more than I expected I _could_ do that night, and knelt down beside Nick's still body. I plucked a hair from his right hand, and another couple from around his neck. My fingers ended up on his lips, I remembered him trying to bite me. Sure enough, there was a hair, and a small chunk of my skin in there.

I searched the rest of them for the blonde hairs, and, quickly, in disgust, climbed back up on the table.

"Hannah?" Somebody called, from out in the hallway. Whoever it was, they sounded close. I slipped my feet through the hole in the wall as quietly as I could, and the doorknob wiggled. There was a loud crash as it fell to the floor, on the other side.

"Hannah?" The voice called again my hand slipped, on the wooden window frame, and I whimpered as a big splinter of it slid into my hand.

"Guys! I think she's in here! The door's broken though. Come help me!" The unwanted visitor called, just as I slipped the rest of the way out the window, with all of my treasures in my pockets. I slammed the window shut, hard, breaking the twig that had previously held it open for me, and quickly made my way to Oliver's car, where he was waiting, anxiously, for me. I slid into the passenger's seat, and shut the door quietly.

"Go!" I ordered, firmly, but not so loud that anybody might hear me.

"Miley...what-"

"Not now." I replied, simply, still averting my eyes. It started raining harder, and I was greatful. I hope I get struck by lightning, and I pray to God it hurts bad.

"Are you going to be okay? Do you just want me to leave you at your house?" He asked, settling more comfortably into his seat.

"I'll be fine." I replied, still not looking at him, as he slowed to a stop outside my vacant, for the night, house.

I didn't want him to follow me, but he did anyway. I couldn't talk, my throat was momentarily blocked, so I couldn't tell him to leave. I tried to pretend he wasn't there, and, with shaking hands, stuck the house key into the lock.

Once inside, I peeled off my soaking wet sweatshirt jacket, and tried to ring it out over the sink. I wasn't sure what I'd do with it, but I didn't want to drip blood all through the house.

Nearly all the sequins and glitter had come off, and now, it was mostly just a plain purple and white sweatshirt. Nothing special, if you didn't know what it's wearer had done.

I could feel Oliver standing behind me. I wasn't sure if he was staring or not, by I did know that any normal guy would, considering how wet the white camisole I'd been wearing underneath was. I didn't really care how I looked at the moment. What Oliver saw meant nothing to me right then.

My jeans were ruined. They'd been brand new, I'd never worn them before, and now they were soaked in blood.

"Miley...please, tell me what's going on." Oliver pleaded, obviously worried about me.

"Later." Was all I said, before I left him in my kitchen and made my way up to my bathroom, peeling my soaked, white, lacy, tank top off at the top of the stairs, in a hurry to get in the shower and wash all of this guilt off of me.

I turned the handle towards red, trying to get it as hot as possible, as I tried to get out of my jeans. They were tight already, but now that they were wet, it was near impossible to get out of them.

I finally pulled them off, and folded my remaining clothes, leaving them on the toilet seat, as I climbed into the steaming hot shower, not looking in the mirror, afraid of what I'd look like.

It took almost half a bottle of conditioner to get my hair anywhere near brush-able, and I probably lost an entire layer of skin, trying to scrub the redness out of it. It was probably red because of the burning water, but I felt like I needed to keep scrubbing anyway.

When the hot water heater kicked on, I finally felt that the temperature of the water had dropped, and that's when it hurt. Every muscle ached, and my skin felt like it was on fire. My scalp burned in pain, my feet were sore, my legs were shaking, out of shock, even my eyes hurt.

I felt like I was going to throw up, so I sat down on the floor of the bathtub, letting the now cold water spray me in the face, while I tried to relax. I still felt like I was going to pass out, so I shut the shower off with my foot, and climbed over the side of the tub, and lay on the floor, spread out. I could feel the fibers of the bathroom rug sticking to me, and it hurt. The air felt like it was boiling, and my brain felt like it was floating in acid. I was going to pass out.

I opened my eyes, and stared at the ceiling, trying to focus my eyes, so that it would quit shaking.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten or drank anything, but I'd much rather tribute this to the wrath of god, and the pain I deserved, rather than dehydration or malnutrition.

I sat up, quickly grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around me, before going to my room as quickly as I could.

Sitting on the bed, I pulled a t-shirt and pajama pants on, not caring whether or not they matched. I laid back on my bed, my soaking hair leaving a wet, temporary stain, on the blankets. The fan was on high, cooling me off.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, but when I took the rest of my bloody clothes down the stairs, nearly passing out by the time I got to the bottom, Oliver was still there.

I set my tank top and jeans in the sink, on top of my sweatshirt, and stared at him. My eyes wouldn't focus, he was blurry, and he kept getting closer, and going farther away. I could practically feel my pupils expanding and contracting, I couldn't see him even if I wanted to.

"You need to eat something, you're white as a ghost." He told me, opening the refrigerator for me.

The pain in my head didn't stop me from grabbing the leftover cheese pizza, wrapped in plastic wrap, that had been sitting on the second shelf for three days. I ate it cold, quickly, and downed it with the glass of milk Oliver had poured for me.

I didn't deserve it. He shouldn't be so nice. If only he knew what I'd done.

I was a blood-thirsty monster, never content. It would happen again. I couldn't stop myself. I was addicted.

Maybe it was the fame, that had finally gotten to me. I'm not quite sure what had caused me to deteriorate like this, but I'd cracked, and all of a sudden, I wasn't me. I wasn't anybody. I was a monster. A creature. Not human.

"What did you do?" Oliver asked me for the last time, quietly, as I set my glass down.

"I..." I started, looking up at him. He looked so concerned, so scared, for me, not of me. He looked...beautiful, inside and out. Unlike me. I was ugly either way. I was hideous. He was not.

I couldn't help but tell him. Now that my eyes had focused, and I could see him clearly, he seemed impossible to lie to. He was having an effect on me that I couldn't control. Another addiction was brewing, I felt.

I had to tell him. I couldn't not tell him. I couldn't be completely truthful with him, not yet. I was fighting it, but I had to tell him something. I wasn't strong enough to tell him the complete truth.

"I...killed someone."

**_So she told somebody...obviously...annnnd...it will probably be a while before you see his reaction...I've got too many other stories to work on, and I haven't exactly had the urge to sit down and write anything lately. I'm honestly surprised I even worked on this today. I'm extremely tired, plus I have a migrane that's making me feel like somebody shot me in the back of the head._**

**_I'm sorry though! I'll honestly try my best to get the next chapter up as soon as possible._**

**_R & R anyway though. _:p**


End file.
